


Fallen Embers

by Schattengestalt



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Developing Relationship, Drug Abuse, Drug Addiction, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Insecure Sherlock, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts, Trans John, Trans Male Character, Vulnerable Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-06
Updated: 2017-10-06
Packaged: 2019-01-09 20:24:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12283755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schattengestalt/pseuds/Schattengestalt
Summary: Sherlock has given up on life, just like everyone has given up on him. The decision to jump is only logical, but when he is about to take the final step, something happens. Something interesting or rather...someoneinteresting.Blue eyes swam with tears as they looked down at the dark water once more. This time, he didn't hold them back, as they ran down his cheeks. No one was going to notice his swollen eyes, if his body was found at all. He was alone - always had been - and he would die alone."Excuse me, mind if I join you?"





	Fallen Embers

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry that I vanished for so long, but I hope this story makes up for it. :) You can read it with your slash goggles on or off, both works out just fine... just let me know what you think of the story, later one. ;)
> 
>  
> 
> Trigger Warnings: Suicidal thoughts and suicidal tendencies. Drug addiction and drug abuse, as well as references to prostitution. If ANY of this bothers you, don't read this story!!!
> 
>  
> 
> There will be a happy ending, I promise. =)

### Fallen Embers

It was cold - freezing cold to be precise. Nothing unexpected at the end of January and yet it still surprised Sherlock how biting the wind was, as it tore on his clothes. Maybe, the wind wasn't even this cold, but his coat just too thin for this time of the year. Or maybe, he only felt the cold like this, because he hadn't eaten anything besides a few crackers in days. In the end, it was irrelevant. It didn't matter if he was cold or warm. If he had eaten a complete meal or nothing for days. If he had slept in a five star hotel or under a bridge. He didn't care... no one cared. And this was the whole reason for this, wasn't it? Pale blue eyes fixed on the churning surface of the Thames, only about five meters underneath his feet. One step and it would be over in minutes.

 

A smile ghosted around the corner of Sherlock's lips as he leaned forwards, only one hand holding onto the railing of the bridge, as he contemplated how this would work exactly. And with this, he meant his suicide. No need to beat around the bush, when it was what it was. He would jump from this bridge and he would die, simple as this. Or well, not exactly simple, considering all the biological processes that were involved in dying, but much easier than other ways to die. No need to calculate the necessary amount of cocaine to end his existence or to get his hands on an especially sharp knife to cut his wrists. He just needed to take the final step and the coldness of the water and the stream would do the rest for him.

 

Sherlock nodded to himself. Yes, this was exactly what he wanted. A quick and clean way to go, that didn't give anyone the chance to save him. Not that there were many people, that would try to stop him from killing himself. His dealer certainly didn't care if he ended his life one way or the other, as long as he had paid his debts beforehand. Some of his punters would bemoan his death, because of his fantastic blowjob, but they certainly wouldn't dirty their hands, in an effort to save his life. A few of the homeless people, Sherlock had met during the last few months, might actually care... as much as you can care, when you are busy with your own survival. No, there was actually only one person in London, who would move heaven and hell to stop him from ending his life. 

 

Mycroft!

 

A humorless laugh fell from Sherlock's lips as he thought of his brother. Of course, Mycroft would mobilize every last policemen and doctor, if he noticed that Sherlock was flirting with death. Not because he cared - Mycroft had made it very clear what he thought of Sherlock - but rather because he felt obligated to keep his brother alive. Not that mother or father would thank him for it - they would be thrilled, when they learned that their failure of a son had finally stopped being an embarrassment - but Mycroft had always wanted to control everything, especially Sherlock. And this was the crucial reason for him to stand at the edge of this very bridge and not on one of the many others that could be found in London. No surveillance cameras in this part of town. No tourist features or pubs near the bridge, so the chances that someone would stumble across him on a workday, in the middle of the night, was close to nil.

 

It was perfect. The perfect plan to end his life and no doubt, Mycroft would have pointed out to him that he wouldn't stand here, if he had invested just half as much thought in the planning of his future as he had invested in his suicide. Still, he would probably be glad, once his brother was finally out of the picture... at least, that was what Sherlock had gathered from their last meeting, a couple of months ago.

 

"You are such a disgrace!"

Sherlock glared at his brother, from where he sat hunched on the thin mattress, which provided the only furniture in the flat. If you could call a drafty, dirty room with a mattress and a bucket in one corner of the room a flat. Sherlock wasn't so sure about it, but at least there was a sink on the floor just outside the room and sometimes the water that came out of the tap was even clear.

Of course, this wasn't how someone was supposed to live. Sherlock wasn't stupid enough to believe that his situation was normal. Because it wasn't, not for the average people in London, but for a drug user... it could have been much worse. Sherlock had spent enough days sleeping in the streets to know what he was talking about. At least here, he had a roof over his head. Not much in comparison to how he had lived before Mycroft had found out about his cocaine habit. His big brother had made sure that his parents learned of Sherlock's fall from grace - they had put it like this - and they had withdrawn their financial support. Maybe, Mycroft had hoped that it would be enough to get Sherlock away from the drugs, but he had been wrong. A fact that made Sherlock grin, despite the yearning of his body for the next hit. He had already prepared a syringe, but he wouldn't shoot up, until Mycroft had left. otherwise he might wake up chained to a bed in some rehab clinic, because he couldn't fight his brother off, while he was high.

"Are you happy now?" Mycroft sneered down at him, in his perfect three piece suit, with his neatly styled hair and his polished designer shoes. Sherlock hated him. He hated him for being so perfect, for living up to the expectations of their parents. He hated him for being so superior, for looking down on Sherlock. But most of all, he hated his brother, because Mycroft didn't understand him. His perfect, smart brother didn't see what was right in front of his nose. He didn't understand why Sherlock had turned his back to his studies and instead embraced the sweet silence that came with his drug of choice. He couldn't see how Sherlock had never fitted in, how he had tried and always failed and finally pretended that he didn't care if his peers despised him, because Mycroft had always managed to pretend. To pretend that he wasn't much different from most people. To pretend to not be bothered by the stupidity of people that surrounded him. To pretend that he wasn't just a power-hungry, cold and calculating politician, who would kill everyone, who got in his way... or the way of England.

"I will be happy when you are finally gone... or have you decided to give my trust back to me?" Sherlock knew that the question was pointless. Mycroft wouldn't give his trust back to Sherlock, until he couldn't be certain that the money wouldn't be invested in drugs. Still, it was always fun to rile his older brother up, even if his skin was itching with the need for the clear liquid in the syringe.

"Of course, I will give you back your trust fund, so that you can buy even more drugs from it... tell me, little brother, does such a reply seem likely?" Sherlock ignored his brother and instead counted the cracks in the wall, there were two more than yesterday. "Or have you grown tired of offering your arse to strangers for a shot?"

Sherlock's head jerked up as he gaped at his brother. It wasn't surprising that Mycroft knew how Sherlock earned his money for the drugs, but they had never mentioned it so far. "It's none of your business what I do with my body!"

Mycroft merely raised an eyebrow in reply. "Of course not. You can give as many blowjobs as you like and if one of your costumers ever tears your arse open by buggering you too hard, I'm sure they will stitch you back together at a hospital... after checking you for all kind of diseases."

Sherlock flinched away at Mycroft's disgusted tone. It shouldn't bother him what his brother had to say about him, but the way he looked at him like Sherlock was an especially repulsive insect was almost too much for him to bear. Especially, since there was too much truth in Mycroft's words for Sherlock to think about without breaking down. When he wasn't in immediate need for a shot, he always made sure that the men he sold his body to, used condoms, but when he was truly desperate... well, he couldn't rule out that he had caught something.

"Just fuck off!" Sherlock barely managed to force the words past his tight throat, without betraying how close to breaking down he was. If Mycroft tried convincing him to go to rehab - not forcing, convincing - Sherlock might even agree to it now. After all, it wasn't as if he could go on like this forever and maybe, the world wouldn't be as boring anymore, after he had experienced how it felt to drown in desperation.

"Gladly, brother mine." Mycroft turned around and didn't even bother to offer Sherlock any kind of help. "Make sure not to die in the next couple of months, as I'm out of the country and I would hate for Mum or Dad to identify your body."

Sherlock stared at the doorway for a long time after his brother had already left. So that was it then. Mycroft had given up on him and was just waiting for him to finally die. Of course, a dead brother was less of a risk for his career than a drug addict. Tears burned in Sherlock's eyes, but before they could fall, he pushed the syringe in his arm and gave himself up to the welcoming numbness that cocaine always brought to him.

 

Blue eyes swam with tears as they looked down at the dark water once more. This time, he didn't hold them back, as they ran down his cheeks. No one was going to notice his swollen eyes, if his body was found at all. He was alone - always had been - and he would die alone.

 

"Excuse me, mind if I join you?"

 

Sherlock barely managed not to scream in frustration at the question. Couldn't the world leave him alone? Why, for crying out loud, did this man have to find him now? He didn't want to spend his last moments on earth discussing with an idiot, why it was his decision to make to end his life and that he couldn't save him.

 

Sherlock turned his head in the direction of the man to deduce him to within an inch of his life to make him leave, but snapped his mouth shut, when he met the man's gaze. There wasn't any indication in the dark blue eyes of the young man that he had climbed over the guard railing to prevent Sherlock from jumping. On the contrary, it was written in every line of the man's face that he intended to jump as well... but why? Sherlock frowned as he forgot the cold and his planned suicide for a second and concentrated on his new companion on the bridge. Young - mid-twenties, around Sherlock's age - and desperate - tired, red rimmed eyes and an air of complete despair around him.

 

"What?" The young man cocked his head to the side and gifted Sherlock with a sad smile. For a second, Sherlock contemplated just jumping and leaving this mystery behind, but... he just couldn't. If he died, then it didn't matter if one more person despised him, especially not if said person was going to die soon as well. "You are in med school, only one more year to go and then you are a doctor. You are one of the best students of your year and therefore you have already been offered a position at various hospitals for when you are finished." Sherlock ignored the man's stunned look and continued. "You came home to celebrate the news with your family, but they weren't thrilled. Not because of your career plans, but because of something else. Your sexuality most likely, as you chose this time to come out as gay. Your family rejected you and cut you off completely. You don't know how to finance your final year of studies and your flat. Besides, you love your family and their rejection hurt you more than you expected."

 

The young man blinked at him and Sherlock averted his eyes. This had been a bad idea. He should have just jumped or found himself another bridge, so that he could spend his final moments in peace. He didn't really need to be called a freak, weirdo or psycho one last time.

 

"Brilliant!"

 

Sherlock's head snapped around and he stared at the young man, who grinned at him. The sadness and despair was still there, but the smile was genuine and Sherlock dared to return it with one of his own. "That's not what people normally say."

 

"What do they say?"

 

"Piss off!"

 

The young man shook his head. "Some people are really stupid, this was amazing. How did you know all this, just by looking at me?"

 

The situation should be surreal. Here, they were, two young man, ready to jump to their own death and leave this life behind and yet... they were talking like they had met in a perfectly normal place. It should be weird, but somehow it wasn't and Sherlock started to explain. "You wear the emblem of your med school on your jacket, so this part was very simple. You are also exhausted and have been for some time, but you don't look like someone, who parties every day, therefore you must take your studies seriously. It was a bit of a leap that you are one of the best students of your year, but why else would you go home in the middle of the semester, if not to surprise your family with the news of your job offers."

 

"How did you know that I went home?"

 

Sherlock nodded to the traveling bag on the other side of the railing. "Small bag, you only planned to stay home for a couple of days. You wouldn't be as crushed if friends had rejected you, so it must have been your family. Then, there are buttons with various flags on your bag, the rainbow flag being one of them. So, gay and rejected by your family, with no money of your own to pay for your last year of education. Did I get everything right?"

 

The young man nodded slowly. "I study to become a Doctor and I don't live at home. I'm the best of my year and I have been offered positions at three hospitals. I went home to share the news with my family and they threw me out of the house and refused to pay for my education."

 

"Ah, spot on." Sherlock couldn't help but grin. It had been a while since he had deduced anyone besides drug dealers or punters and it was a relief to learn that he could still do it.

 

"No, well..." The young man fidgeted a little, as if he didn't want to talk about it, but then just shrugged. "I'm not gay, I'm bisexual. That's not the problem, though. I'm transgender and my family didn't know, until... today."

 

Sherlock blinked, his eyes swept over the young man and he grimaced. "Transgender. There is always something, I miss. I presume you started your transition, when you went away to med school and then always found a reason not to meet with your family to keep your identity a secret?"

 

The young man nodded slowly. "Yes, something like this. I could still sue them, so that they have to finish paying for my education, but... I don't want to deal with them anymore, not after what happened today."

 

Sherlock smiled bitterly at this. "I understand."

 

There was silence between them for countless minutes, only interrupted by the howling of the wind and the crashing of the water against the piers, then: "So what's your story?"

 

Sherlock opened his mouth to tell the young man to fuck off, only to realise that he didn't mean it. Against all odds, he was more interesting than most people, Sherlock had met and somehow he didn't mind sharing some of his story with him. "Science student. Tried drugs. Developed an cocaine addiction. Cut off by my family. Prostituted myself. Told by my brother that he was just waiting for my death." Sherlock exhaled slowly. "Now, you know the basics and you can judge..."

 

"I'm not going to judge you." There was a fierceness in the young man's voice that hadn't been there minutes ago and which surprised Sherlock. "You didn't judge me, I won't judge you, but... did you try to get away from the drugs?"

 

"My brother forced me into rehab once, but I broke out and ran away."  
The young man sighed quietly. "No one can really help you, if you don't want help, but... what about now?"

 

Sherlock sighed and leaned back against the railing as he stared up into the nightly sky. "I don't want to take drugs anymore. I took them to work better at first, but now... I can't work at all, because of them. I don't want to sell my body anymore, but... how am I supposed to break this vicious circle?"

 

More silence, then: "Maybe we still have a chance."

 

Sherlock snorted at this. "You still have a chance. You certainly will find a way to pay for your studies without asking your family for help. You are well-liked, your profs will be happy to help you, but I...

 

"You can do it as well!" Again, the determination in his voice. "You're brilliant, I'm sure you can think of a way to get away from the drugs, without asking your brother for help. There must be someone, who is willing to help you get through this."

 

Sherlock almost jumped then and there, before he remembered the exhausted brown eyes and graying hair of the Sergeant that had arrested him once. He had given his card to Sherlock and told him that he would be there for him, if he wanted to change his life. At the time, Sherlock had laughed at him, but he still had his card and maybe... just maybe...

 

"You have experience with addiction," Sherlock murmured more to buy himself more time to make a decision than to deduce the young man. "Not just from your practical training... family member?"

 

His companion on the bridge sighed quietly. "Yes, my father is an alcoholic and my sister... she is following in his footsteps."

 

Sherlock nodded.

 

Silence.

 

"We could make a deal." Sherlock raised an eyebrow at this, but turned a little more to his left to face the young man completely, while hooking his arm over the railing to keep his balance. "What kind of deal?" He would never admit it - not even under torture - but the young man had his full attention now. A feat that no one had achieved, since their science teacher at middle school had taken them on a trip to the morgue. Around this man, he felt like he had felt only back then: Alive and curious. And wasn't that ironic, considering why he had come here in the first place?

 

"One year," the young man spoke. "We will both try to live for one more year and then, on the 29th January at around 11 pm, we will meet here again."

 

"And if one of us or we both still can't go on anymore?"

 

The young man shrugged and laughed... laughed, as if it wasn't a question of life-or-death. Sherlock liked him more with every minute. "If it's not better by then, we can still jump."

 

"No trying to stop each other, I gather?" 

 

"Nope."

 

Sherlock stared from the young man to the gurgling water and back to him. He could still jump. No one would hold him back if he let go of the railing now to fall to his death. It was just like before and at the same time, it wasn't. Because now, someone cared. Sherlock's eyes flickered upwards to meet the dark blue ones of his companion. They were still tired and exhausted, but there was a sparkling flame in them that hadn't been there at the start of their conversation. This young man would come out of this fight alive, Sherlock was sure of it. And what about himself? He didn't know... but he could find out. If he climbed back over the railing and accepted the man's deal, he had a chance to live. A chance to spite Mycroft... and to meet the young man again. 

 

Sherlock's lips curled up into the imitation of a smile. Yes, that sounded nice.  
"Alright," he finally agreed and climbed back to safety, followed by the young man, who slung his bag back over his shoulder and then smiled shyly up at Sherlock. "Should we exchange names?"

 

Sherlock frowned and then shook his head. He would love to know the name of this extraordinary young man, but then he would lose one reason to survive this year and Sherlock was realistic enough to understand that this could make the difference between death and survival, besides...

 

"You would find me too easily, if I gave you my name and it would destroy the purpose of our deal, if we met before the year is over."

 

The young man sighed quietly. "You are right, but... no dying until next year, then." He held out his hand for him to shake and Sherlock gripped it tightly, before he turned around and walked away.

 

He didn't look back. It would be pointless. They would see each other next year, although Sherlock didn't know how their next meeting would end, but until then, he swore to fight.

 

OOO

 

Nine, ten... eleven.

 

Sherlock counted the strokes of the clock as he leaned back against the railing of the bridge and stared up into the nightly sky. It wasn't as cold as last year... or maybe, it was just as cold, but his senses didn't register it this way. Maybe, because of his thick winter coat, the scarf and the gloves. Or maybe, because Lestrade had forced him to eat a whole pizza, after he had solved a case for the Yard this afternoon. Or maybe, the absence of drugs in his bloodstream had a positive effect on how sensitive his body was to the cold.

 

Sherlock smiled quietly. He had been clean for a whole year by now and all thanks to a complete, nameless stranger. A stranger, who's blue eyes had smiled encouragingly at Sherlock, whenever he had closed his eyes in despair, during his time at rehab. A stranger, who was responsible that Sherlock was still alive and - even more important - had found more reasons to remain among the living - no matter how stupid most people were. A development that had even taken Mycroft by surprise.

 

"You look... well." Sherlock smirked at the disbelief in Mycroft's voice. His brother hadn't seen him since his last visit, almost a year ago and Sherlock was all too aware of how much he had changed since then.

The changes had been slow at first - slow and horrible painful - but they had been for the better, in the end. Sherlock was still amazed at it, whenever he looked into the mirror in the mornings and wasn't confronted with the face of a walking skeleton. No, he certainly didn't look like a drug addict anymore. His skin was still pale - and would always stay that way - but its grayish tint was gone and he looked almost healthy. Almost, because even Sherlock couldn't shake off years of drug addiction like they were nothing. He was still much too thin and the drug abuse had taken a toll on his constitution as well, but he was working on it. In fact, Sherlock couldn't remember the last time he had taken so many walks through London, but it was the best way to get back in shape and it also had the side-effect of making him more familiar with the city. After all, Sherlock needed to know London inside out, if he wanted to successfully chase criminals. No matter that Lestrade had told him that he couldn't go after criminals himself, Sherlock was determined that he wouldn't be hold back by some stupid rules, although it was probably necessary to play by them, until he had established himself as essential to Scotland Yard. Considering how many imbeciles worked for the police, Sherlock was certain that this wouldn't take long.

"Not thanks to you, Mycroft." Sherlock glared at his brother, from where he sat cross-legged on the floor and sorted through news paper clippings. "What do you want?"

Mycroft shuffled his feet and if Sherlock hadn't known his brother better, he would have believed that his brother felt guilty. Guilty about treating Sherlock like shit and pushing him away, when he had needed his brother most. But Sherlock doubted that his brother even know how to spell the word, let alone feel such an emotion, therefore he didn't offer Mycroft a place to sit nor anything else, as Sherlock waited for him to state the reason for his presence at his flat. He didn't need to wait long.

"I needed to see that you were clean with my own eyes to believe it. When I learned that you had entered a rehab program, of your own free will, I thought... I didn't believe that you would manage it."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at what his brother's words implied - I believed that you would fail. I didn't believe in you. I had already given up on you - but he didn't comment on it. In fact, he could almost forgive Mycroft for not believing in him, as Sherlock hadn't been certain that he would make it through rehab and stay clean afterwards, too. On some days, it had been touch and go, the urge for a shot so overwhelming that not even the picture of the young man from the bridge, with his determined eyes, had been enough to keep him away from the drugs. Lestrade had saved Sherlock on these days. The Inspector had believed in him, from the moment Sherlock had called his number and asked for help. He had brought Sherlock cold case files - and broken a few laws by doing so - to keep him occupied. When this strategy had failed, he had made sure that Sherlock got access to the morgue at St. Bart's to run experiments. Lestrade had even taken him to fresh crime scenes, although only after everyone else had left. If only one of these transgressions had come to light, Lestrade could have lost his job, but he had risked it for Sherlock and given him a perspective. It was more than anyone else had ever done for him - except for the young man, who had pushed him onto the path of recovery in the first place.

"As you see, I'm clean." Mycroft nodded and fixed his eyes on a point above Sherlock's head. "Yes, I'm relieved that you managed it and if you need my help..."

Sherlock barked out a laughter and got to his feet in a slow motion to glare directly at his brother. "I will die, before I ask for your help, ever again. As you can see, I can manage perfectly well on my own." Not completely true, but at least not too far from it to be a complete lie. He certainly wasn't going to tell Mycroft about the nights, when his cravings were so strong that he couldn't predict that he wouldn't give in to them. So far, he had withstood the temptation of drugs and Sherlock would be damned, if he failed now that he finally had a perspective. He had just created his own website and although there weren't many interesting cases, he had gotten one message from a woman, who lived in Florida, to help her prove that her husband was guilty of various crimes. It was more than promising and Sherlock itched to board a plane and solve the case.

"Anyway," Mycroft acknowledged Sherlock's words with a blink of grey eyes and then dismissed them, like he always did. "I got the results of your last blood tests today. You are clean."

Somehow, Sherlock managed not to sag in relief at the news and instead focused on the spark of anger that Mycroft had gotten the results, before Sherlock did. Meddling bastard! Still, it was a relief to know for sure that he hadn't caught anything... at least, nothing life threatening. It was a miracle really, that Sherlock had only gotten infected with gonorrhea, which had been easy enough to treat - at least in comparison to the treatments other diseases would have required.

"Is that all?" Sherlock tapped his foot impatiently and waited until his brother got the hint and turned to leave. 

He only stopped on the threshold to the flat, to glance back at Sherlock, once more. "I will have your violin brought to your flat, this evening." 

It was the closest, Mycroft would ever get to admitting that he was proud of his brother and Sherlock nodded curtly at the sentiment. "Fine," he snapped and after another lingering glance in Sherlock's direction, his brother was gone and Sherlock could finally get back to the cold case, he had been working on for a few days by now. He wanted to show something for his efforts, when he met the young man in a couple of months and what better way was there to impress, if not by making a name for himself. Sherlock smiled and got back to work. He had never been so excited for a simple meeting before.

 

20 Minutes past eleven.

 

Sherlock stared at the display of his phone and swallowed the lump of despair that started to form in his throat. Logically seen, it didn't need to mean anything. Life might have led the young man away from London, without a chance to come back to the city, just to meet up with Sherlock. He couldn't contact him any other way - thanks to Sherlock's own stupidity - and therefore, there was no need to be upset about the absence of the young man.

 

"Or maybe, he is in London and just doesn't want to spend an evening with a drug addict," an ugly voice whispered in his head and Sherlock flinched at it.

 

"I am clean," he whispered desperately into the night, even when he knew that it was in vain. The young man didn't know that Sherlock had won against his demons - and his own body - and there was a high chance that he didn't want to interact with someone like him. Not after everything Sherlock had told him about how he had sold his body to get enough money for drugs. After all, it had been obvious - even on the brink of the bridge - that the young man had the strength to move on with his life and he probably didn't need someone like Sherlock in it. Hell, no one needed him in their lives - except for the Yarders and they hated him for their dependence on him.

 

"Maybe, it would be better if you jumped after all. It would make things so much easier." 

 

Sherlock glanced at the surface of the dark water, just one jump away, and then shook his head. No, he hadn't fought so hard to give up just yet. If no one wanted him to be alive, then he could at least do his best to spit them, by living. The voice in his head remained quiet at this decision and Sherlock threw one last glance over the railing and then turned in the direction of the closest Tube station. The night was still young and he could need a few more hours to pack his things and...

 

"Hey, wait!"

 

Sherlock sprung around at the voice and gaped at the young man that jogged up to him. "Sorry, I had a shift at a clinic this afternoon and then I fell asleep, without setting the alarm and well..." The young man scratched his head in embarrassment as he looked up at Sherlock and then smiled - the most adorable and honest smile that had ever been directed at him. "I'm glad that I still made it and..."

 

"Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes." 

 

Blue eyes blinked up at him in confusion, before their gaze fell on the offered hand and they lit up in understanding. "Yep, I would have definitely found you with such a name. John Watson... I doubt that you would have been so lucky with your search."

 

A small shudder ran through Sherlock's body as John - he finally knew his name - clasped his hand tightly. Somehow, he had feared that the young man - John, his name was John - wouldn't want to touch him. Most people went out of their way to avoid any physical contact with Sherlock, if they knew about his former drug habit and it soothed his raw nerves that John obviously wasn't one of them. No, he was... special.

 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes down at John and the deductions spilled out of his mouth, before he could stop himself. "You have finished your last exams and you were one of the best students of your year. You have a part-time job at a clinic, but you will only work there, until you start your recruit training. You have enlisted and the army paid for your education. There were other options available, but you chose this one because it gave you the best chance to get far away from home. Besides, you buy in this Queen-and-Country nonsense, therefore it was the only logical choice for you. Did I miss something?"

 

"Amazing," John breathed and Sherlock couldn't help the silly grin that turned his lips upwards. Another one of his fears destroyed. John still thought his deductions were brilliant, instead of telling him to fuck off. "

 

I also enlisted, because they didn't question me about my gender identity and they will pay for my hormones like they pay for other necessary medicaments."

 

"There is always something," Sherlock muttered quietly. In fact, he had almost completely forgotten that John was transgender. Somehow, the information hadn't seemed as important as the exact color of his eyes or the sound of his voice.

 

"So," John leaned against the railing of the bridge. "What about you?"

 

A very polite way to inquire about the drug habits of an almost stranger and yet, Sherlock didn't find John's politeness disgusting, although he would have sneered at the same question, if it had come from Mycroft. Strange... or maybe not. Sherlock cocked his head to the side and regarded John carefully, until he realised why it was so different. When Mycroft - or someone else - inquired after his well-being, then they usually weren't interested in his answer at all, but John was. Sherlock smiled. "I'm clean. I spent half a year in rehab and I'm working as a consulting detective now."

 

"A consulting detective?"

 

"The only one in the world, I invented the job. I help the police, whenever they are out of their depth - which is almost always - and I also work private cases."

 

"Sounds dangerous." John grinned up at him, but sobered a second later. "What about... you didn't catch anything, did you?"

 

If anyone else had asked this question, Sherlock would have deduced them to within an inch of their lives, but it was different with John. Firstly, there was no malice in his voice, but real concern and secondly... Sherlock wanted him to know that his former life style didn't have any lasting consequences. "No, I... nothing that couldn't be dealt with in a matter of a few weeks."

 

"That's great." John beamed up at him and then glanced to his right at the dark water and grinned. "So, none of us is going to jump." Sherlock nodded in confirmation, although it hadn't been voiced as a question. "So, what are we going to do now?"

 

"Sometimes, I don't talk for days and I play the violin." The words rushed out of Sherlock's mouth, before he could stop them and he didn't dare to meet John's confused gaze as he forced himself to explain the sudden rush of seemingly useless information. "I solved a case in Florida for a woman. She - Mrs. Hudson - has come back to London and she is in search of tenants for her flat in Baker Street. She would rent it to me for a special price, but it's still too expensive and I thought... you might want somewhere to stay, when you are on leave and a medical opinion never goes amiss, when I'm working on a murder case and..."

 

"Are you asking me to become your flatmate?" John interrupted his rambling with an amused smile and Sherlock noted, aware that he had left himself wide open for rejection. There was a high possibility, that John didn't want to move in with a former drug addict. It was much more likely that he wouldn't want anymore contact with Sherlock after tonight - no matter how friendly he was - and Sherlock couldn't even hold it against him. There were days, on which he didn't want to live with himself as well, so how could he expect someone as upright as John to...

 

"We meet for the second time and now you want me to move in with you." A low chuckle echoed through the night and Sherlock flinched away from the sound. He should have known that it was a bad idea to ask so much of John so soon, but he hadn't been able to hold himself back and now he had ruined everything. "Considering that we were about to jump from this bridge the last time we met, I think moving in together is a step in the right direction."

 

Sherlock gaped at John. "You mean... you will move in with me?"

 

A soft smile turned John's lips upwards. "I will hold my final answer back, until I have seen the flat, but if I like it, I will move in with you."

 

"Then consider us flatmates." Sherlock doubted that John would have anything against Mrs. Hudson's flat. It wasn't only comfortable, but they would also rent it for a very low price - in comparison to the usual prices in central London - and therefore, John could already be counted as his flatmate. Sherlock stopped himself from jumping in the air like an over-excited school boy and instead offered John one of his rare smiles. "Dinner?"

 

John smiled back, more fondness in his smile than Sherlock had seen directed at him in a long time. "Starving."


End file.
